


Willow River: Day Five

by istie, Lostboys143, planetlostinspace, ricky_goldsworth, sessrumnir, shareyoursunshines, WitchBoyWriter



Series: Willow River [8]
Category: Buzzfeed The Try Guys (Web Series), Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Buzzfeed: Worth It (Web Series)
Genre: Adoptive Parents - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Monster Hunters, Angel Adam Bianchi, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Buzzfeed Unsolved Cinematic Universe - Freeform, Collaborative fic, Demon Shane Madej, F/F, Fae Andrew Ilnyckyj, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Monster of the Week, Multi, Supernatural Elements, imprisonment of a minor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 11:44:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15948686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istie/pseuds/istie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lostboys143/pseuds/Lostboys143, https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetlostinspace/pseuds/planetlostinspace, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricky_goldsworth/pseuds/ricky_goldsworth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sessrumnir/pseuds/sessrumnir, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shareyoursunshines/pseuds/shareyoursunshines, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchBoyWriter/pseuds/WitchBoyWriter
Summary: The Willow Guard and its new members start planning to infiltrate Mount Perseus and rescue Shane.  Their plans are derailed by an unexpected visitor, whose revelations answer some questions but, as with anything in this small town, really just cause even more questions.





	1. Morning

**Author's Note:**

> You definitely want to read this series in order! Read Willow River: Days One through Four and Mikaere's Weekend before diving into this instalment.
> 
> \---
> 
> Since March of 2018, myself and six friends have been playing an online Monster of the Week campaign, with myself as Keeper (or dungeon master, if you prefer). It has evolved into several months of intense emotional journey, and we're having so much fun that we thought we should share it with you.
> 
> Basic credits: story and narration by me, characters' backstories and actions by their respective players...
> 
> The main cast is, in alphabetical order by last name:  
> Owen Atwin, played by @WitchBoyWriter;  
> Chen Xiaolian, played by @Lostboys143;  
> James Finn, played by @planetlostinspace;  
> Mikaere Jones, played by @ghoul_ish;  
> Roan Morris, played by @girlwiththebooks;  
> Cassandra Wojtek, played by @sessrumnir;  
> something like two dozen NPCs, played by @istie,  
> and the narrator, also played by @istie.
> 
> I have edited our transcripts down into novel format: most times a character is speaking or acting, they are being played by their player - only in montages or scene descriptions do I, as Keeper, have control. I have also edited out our rolls, as Monster of the Week is a dice-based game: you only see the narrative results.
> 
> We hope you enjoy reading as much as we have enjoyed playing so far!

Everyone sleeps in on Monday morning, or at least, those that can. The Monstrous and the Divine opens with Adam and Bolin in the kitchen, Andrew and Steven nowhere to be seen; the bookstore is still closed, the sign on Banjo’s door says Open, and life in Willow River is quiet, peaceful, and back to normal. A sunny Monday morning, the beginning of the work week: plenty of people driving out of town to go to work in Giscome or Prince George, and a couple of yellow-orange school buses trundle along the road, full of kids.

James had gotten very little sleep that night. He’d spent the night pouring over his journals, looking for any mention of rifts and those who seek to use them – if he guessed, he’d say he’d probably gotten three hours of sleep, or so. He quickly popped into the café for a cup of coffee (with maybe too much milk and sugar) in a to-go-cup, then headed over to Banjo’s store, checking the time on his watch: 7:30 am.

His sleep, short as it was, had been fitful. Every time he laid down, he couldn’t help but think that he was wasting time. Every second he spent not working was another second Shane was in danger. Another second of Ryan’s grief. Another second of Xiaolian’s sorrow.

He arrives: Banjo’s store isn’t open yet, but there are lights on inside.  James knocks on the front door and hopes he isn’t waking anyone up.

A moment or two later, Banjo comes to the front door, cup of coffee in hand. “Hello, James,” he says, “what brings you here this fine morning?”

James holds up his journal. “I found something.”

Banjo steps back and opens the door, inviting James in. “Let’s hear it,” he says.

James walks past him. “Well, I couldn’t find anything on this  _specific_  rift, but I expected that. I am the first of my family out here.” He abruptly turns on his heel. “Oh, sorry for intruding so early Banjo. My mind’s been racing since last night and I ran out of things to do.” 

Banjo closes the door and leads him over to an alcove with a small table and a pair of chairs. “Not a problem. Monsters wait for no man. Have a seat, tell me what you’ve found.”

James pulls out a seat and sets out three books; his main journal, “Unconfirmed” and “Universe”. He opens up “Unconfirmed”. “I found a few mentions of something rift-like in the French Alps. A… uh, a ‘convergence of energy’.” He points at the page on which it’s mentioned, covered in Arabic.

Banjo glances over the pages as he sits down. “Afraid I don’t read Arabic, that’s very much Shane’s specialty. But…the French Alps, eh? That sounds familiar…”

“This is just one entry from the mid-1700s. I found another for northeastern China in the 1800s. They both say basically the same thing: ‘in this area the barriers between worlds are thin.’”

Banjo nods. “Yes, that jives with what I know…”

James looks down at his journals, reminding himself of his findings.  He opens the last journal and flips to the correct page. “And I found a… I’m not even sure.”

Banjo raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yeah, there’s a lot. Um… gimme a sec to figure out what’s important…” James trails off as he skims the passage. “It’s talking about parallel universes and spirit realms, and then ‘We know this because of the brave souls who enter these other realms, occasionally with the intent to do so; some return with tales of the future, or the past, or of worlds so unlike our own they could not comprehend–and these come back broken.’ And that’s just fucking _out there_ , and then there’s this shit: ‘the space between the worlds, the fabric of reality itself, which none of this plane can begin to comprehend: the stuff of which the universes are made is brimming with power, an infinite of possibilities. To gain control over this would spell the power of life and death, of creation and destruction, of mortals become gods for the slightest moments before they are torn to shreds and reality rewrites itself in whatever way it sees fit.’“

James pauses and looks over to Banjo. “If you ask me, that’s got motive written all over it, but I’m not even done yet, listen to this: ‘This writer has seen the devastation of a civilization laid low by attempting to harness this energy: should any beings succeed, they would alter the course of reality without question. Of course, one wonders how many times it has already happened and which iteration of the universe we exist in today.’“ James puts the journal back on the table. He raises his arms in the universally understood gesture for _what the fuck_?

Banjo listens carefully, then takes a moment to consider before speaking. “…I can’t say all of that is too surprising, to be honest. Do you happen to know when this was written?”

“It’s, um…” James squints at the page. “Around 930-940 CE, in the Gregorian calendar.”

“Hm. Alright,” he says. He’s quiet a moment more. “I agree that definitely sounds like a motive, and like I said, that very much jives with what we’ve seen them doing. I wonder what their end goal is… control, or destruction?” He pulls his pipe out of his breast pocket and taps it on his chin. “And I very much wonder about that civilization your writer was talking about. I wonder if Shane or Adam would know.”

James rests his head on his hands. “I’m not sure it matters. Both options end the same.”  He looks up at Banjo. “The writer references being in the Sahara, so I would guess…” He thinks for a second before declaring, “Punt. No one knows what happened to Punt.”

Banjo looks impressed. “I’d always heard the Tombalbayes had incredible wealths of knowledge, but it’s another thing entirely to see it in action. I think I’ve heard of Punt _once_ , and I’m a fairly well-read member of the Guard.” He chuckles at himself. “Have you come across anything that might help us stop them?”

James blushes and sits up. “St-stopping them, uh…” He frowns and shrugs. “It seems like the universe has found a fool proof way of stopping them. In the event of not wanting everyone here to die, cease to have ever existed, or whatever happens… my gut says to make sure they can never even open it. It’s kinda game over after that.”

Banjo runs his fingers over the smooth polished wood of the pipe. “Guess so. In which case…we do what we’ve always done. Reason with the ones who can be reasoned with, kill the ones who can’t.” He sighs, heavily. “S’pose it’s too much to ask for some way of locking the interstitial space between the planes of existence to tampering.”

James looks over at his journals. “I’ve got a lot of info on the universe but that may be out of my pay grade.”

Banjo chuckles. “I suspect if there were a way, it would have already happened, and we wouldn’t be in this mess.” He spreads his hands on the tabletop, looking at James intently. “What’s your next step?”

James rubs his face. “Like, two more cups of coffee.” He waves his hand dismissively. “And the super easy task of planning a break in to a facility we know nothing about with people I barely know. Y’know, normal Monday.”

“Well, hopefully we’ll know a little more once Ryan’s done going over the footage he got on Saturday,” Banjo says, “we might have some semblance of a floor plan. Failing that– well…” He looks out the window pensively. “This is not a mission we can afford to fail. We may need to do more reconnaissance before attempting anything more direct.” 

James stares off into the distance. “I just hope we have the time.”

Banjo hums agreement. “It’s one hell of a catch-22. Go in too soon, without being ready, risk more lives and possibly fail to rescue Shane. Wait, subject him to God knows what, and hope he can survive. That lanky bastard’s tougher than nails, but…those folks are cruel. I don’t know quite how demons are attached to our physical plane, either, so …” He laughs darkly. “I imagine they’re learning just  _oodles_  from him.”

James groans and collapses on the table. “I swear the last four days has felt like six months.”

“I hear ya,” Banjo says, shaking his head, “my God, do I ever hear ya.”

James thinks for a second before looking over to Banjo. “What materials do you have on this area? Maybe if we compare what I have with it.” James shrugs. “We might find something.”

“Do you mean hereabouts in town, the rift here? Or the other areas your journals mention?” Banjo looks thoughtful. “I don’t personally have much on anywhere but here, that’s typically Shane’s department.”

“No, that’s perfect. I know nothing about here and close to everything about the rest of the world.”

“Alright,” Banjo says, getting up and going over to his kitchen cabinets, which he opens–revealing them to be full of books. “What do you want to know?”

James looks at all the books. “Where do you keep your dishes?”

He grins. “The cupboards under the counter.”

James laughs. “Um, how about the mountain. Mount… Perseus?” He says uncertainly.

Banjo scans the spines of his books, then plucks out a thick hand-bound volume. This, he sets down on his counter and opens, flipping pages until he exclaims, “Aha, here it is… Mount Perseus. Strange activity has been recorded in this area for centuries, and oral histories go even further back. Odd creatures wandering the forests, forest fires with no source and not nearly enough damage… Stories of caves in the mountain that are bigger than they should be, that change orientation. Labyrinths. Hunters and scouts getting lost when seeking shelter, returning with stories of otherworldly dreams and unexpected vision quests.”

He flips forward a few pages. “In the mid-eighties, a significant part of the mountain was bought by a mining company, which set up a facility and then promptly went bankrupt and abandoned it. Incidences of cryptids and other strange occurrences increased, however, and when the Willow Guard went to investigate, we found a deep-cover facility hidden in the mountain–this was our first meeting with the Rift-seekers.”

“Since then,” he continues, “research into anomalous occurrences has continued at the facility under unknown authorities. Strange local activity died down to almost nothing in the nineties, though the facility was still very much in operation–it was very internally focused.”

“The Rift-seekers suffered a significant set-back in the early aughts, and a strong presence was not seen until the last few years.” He looks up at James. “We’ve been keeping an eye on them since, and then shit hit the fan last winter.”

While Banjo is talking, James returned to lay face down on the table. “Interesting… Remind me to write that down later. Sounds similar to whatever happened in the Sahara, so I would assume that would make it textbook rift behavior.”

“Agreed,” Banjo replies. “From what you’re saying, and the hints Shane and Adam have let slip, there are several of these around the globe.  I don’t know if they’re connected in any way, or if they’re all just…weak spots? Strong spots?” Banjo leans back on the counter and plays with his pipe thoughtfully. “ _Interesting_  spots.”

“If my memory serves me, there is a ley line near here. Not so sure about in the Sahara, because we don’t have a specific position.”

Banjo nods. “Ley lines shift to some degree, but the nexuses tend to stay the same, or at least close. There’s been a nexus of ley lines in this general area for as long as anyone’s kept track.”

“Well, it’s as good a theory as any.” James turns his head to smile at Banjo.

“Certainly.” Banjo smiles back, still twisting his pipe through his hands. “Not sure how much it helps us with this infiltration job, though.”

James chuckles. “Probably not at all. I’m just curious by nature.”

“Fair enough, fair enough. So what are your next steps?”

“I think I’ve intruded on your morning enough for one day.” James sits up, stretches, and yawns. “I’ll probably go to M’n’D for breakfast and see if I can catch Cassandra to regroup.”

Banjo nods. “You need me, you know where to find me. I expect there will be a meeting at Ryan’s in the next day or two–I know we’ll have some new information coming in from our crew.”

James gathers up his journals. He turns to leave, adjusting his books to give a small salute. “I’ll see ya soon.”

Banjo gives him a wave. “Sounds good. Keep well, son.”

* * *

At the stroke of ten, an infrequent guest enters the Monstrous and the Divine, the little bell above the door announcing his presence. He is a tall, redheaded, pale-skinned, sharp-featured man all in black, including black leather gloves that extend into his shirtsleeves: he is, on the whole, a vaguely discomfiting personage, though if you thought about  _why_  you’d have a hard time pinning it. He’s certainly not unpleasant–his most significant affront to social etiquette would have to be that he’s a bit dour of face, and his tone of voice slightly more curt than is customary, but his light Scottish brogue (with strange overtones of Received Pronunciation) is polite as he orders an eggs benedict and a strong coffee, and he nods at the other patrons as he sits down in an armchair by a small table and opens a newspaper.

Approximately five minutes later, Cecilia Tinsley enters the café, orders a full English breakfast, and sits down in the armchair next to the quiet, pale man. As she sits, he–without looking–passes her the section of the newspaper he’s already read, and they continue in this fashion for fifteen minutes more until the paper is done and their food has arrived.

“Good morning, Cecilia,” the man says, raising his mug of well-sugared coffee in formal greeting.

“And to you, Domhnall,” she replies, doing the same with her cup of unadulterated blonde roast. “Do you have a report for me?”

He nods, setting into his eggs benedict. “Yes. You’ll find it very interesting, I’m sure, though it doesn’t make for very good breakfast conversation.”

She spears a link of sausage with her fork. “I bet.”

“When will I have the pleasure of meeting the group that, ah, provided me with my night’s work?” he asks, somewhat delicately. “And who decided my locked doors were an invitation, rather than a warning?”

She snorts. “They can usually be found here in the mornings, I’ve noticed. I imagine you’ll run into a few of them within the next hour. Failing that–we do have an infiltration to plan.”

He nods. “Acceptable. Also, Adam has outdone himself with this hollandaise.”

* * *

Xiaolian wakes up slowly, taking a couple of seconds to remember where she was. Going over yesterday’s events in her head, she was grateful that Banjo was still looking after her, but now she’s hungry. Getting up, she makes her way quietly to the kitchen. Something yellow catches her eye: she pulls a banana from the bunch sitting on the counter.

She’s quick to finish.  After the last bite, she stares at the banana peel in her hand. An idea came to mind and she dropped the banana peel on the floor. She steps on it carefully with one foot, holding on to the counter with both hands. Slowly, she moves the peel around. “Huh, it’s not as slippery as I thought.” She lets go of the counter and continues moving around on the peel. “Ha, this isn’t anything like the cartoo--.” Her words cut off as her foot slips out from under her and her arms flail as she falls, knocking off a cup on the counter. The air in her lungs whooshes out as her back slams into the floor. She lays there for a couple of seconds, dazed.

Banjo, summoned by the loud bangs of Xiaolian and the cup, enters from the shop section of the building, and smirks as he sees Xiaolian flat on the floor. “Testing physics, eh?” he says, bending to pick up the fallen cup.

“Please don’t tell anyone.” She doesn’t get up from the floor. “If you love me, you’ll never tell anyone.”

He sets the cup back on the counter and offers her a hand up. “Cross my heart and hope to die, kid.”

She takes it and stands up. “You are genuinely the best person in my life. One of them. Like, top three.”

He winks. “And I know it. So, what’s your plan for today?”

“Uh, I was just… I don’t know. Meet up with the others and maybe start working out a plan?” She sighs and slumps against the counter. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“Meeting up with the others sounds like a good idea. There should also be some new information coming in from our crew, too. Best to get everyone on the same page.”

“Stealing a body was so much easier. But I can text my group, we’ll probably end up meeting at MnD so I guess I’ll figure it out from there.”

He nods. “It does seem to be home base for your little group.”

“I can’t tell if they’re in love with the food or Adam and Andrew.” She walks over to where her shoes were and slips them on. She also sends a quick text out to everyone except for Owen who doesn’t have a phone and is probably already there.

Banjo snickers. “Por qué no los dos?”

“Big mood.” Xiaolian walks over to give Banjo a quick hug. “Thanks for everything, Banjo.”

He smiles and hugs back. “Any time, kid.”

She gives him a quick kiss on the cheek before she heads out the door to M’n’D.


	2. Afternoon - I

Back at the Spirit of the Lake, the sun streams through the slats of the blinds in Owen’s room for hours before he rouses. It’s been a hell of a weekend.  When he finally wakes up, he stays in bed for a good fifteen minutes before finally getting out of bed, heading downstairs to find at least one dad.  He finds the cafe busy, but not overwhelmingly so; Adam is in the kitchen, kneading dough, covered in flour.

Owen comes up behind Adam, gently tapping him on the arm. “…Can I help?” He asks softly, looking up at Adam hopefully.

Adam glances over at him. “Good morning, Owen.” He flips the dough over, folds it back on itself, and pushes down on it. “Sure. Go wash your hands really well with soap and water at the big sink and get an apron from the back room.”

“Okay!” He hurries to do as he’s told, pushing his sleeves up before washing his hands. He doesn’t like the way the soap makes his hands feel, but he does it anyway, shaking the water off his hands and wiping the rest off on his pants. He looks around in the back, finding the aprons and returning to Adam with one in his arms. “…Can you help me put it on?”

Adam takes the apron from him and unrolls it with a light snap, shaking it out. “Sure.” He puts the top loop over Owen’s head, then ties it around his waist at the back. “Okay. Ready to knead dough? You do it like this,” he says, turning back to the counter. “First you fold it in half… then you push down and forward, stretching it out. Then you turn it a quarter turn, fold it in half, and do it again. Make sense?”

Owen nods, listening and watching. “Yeah, I think so… Should I try it now?” he asks, moving closer to the counter.

“Go for it,” Adam says, stepping back and motioning to the dough.

Owen kneads the dough like Adam told him to, doing decently, but definitely not perfect.

Adam smiles. “Good job,” he says, “keep at it. That dough needs … another four or so minutes of kneading?” He glances at the clock. “I’ll let you know when you’re done. While you’re doing that–how are you feeling?”

“…How am I feeling? Uh…” He’s quiet for a moment or two as he kneads the dough, trying to find an answer to the question. “…Weird, I guess?” He shrugs. “I don’t know, I guess I can’t explain it really…”

“That’s fine,” Adam replies, turning to get some ingredients out of a cupboard next to them. “A lot has happened to you in the past few days. Have you thought about what you’re going to do next?”

Owen shakes his head. “Not really… Probably just whatever the rest of the group decides,” he admits. “They know what’s going on better then me.”

“Hm.” Adam’s quiet for a moment, setting out bottles and canisters on the counter. “… What do  _you_  want, Owen?”

Owen doesn’t immediately say anything, processing and considering. He finally says, “…I don’t even really know who I  _am._  How am I supposed to know what I want?”

Adam kneels and gets a large mixing bowl out from underneath the counter, thinking. “That’s a fair question,” he says, finally. “Maybe that’s what you want? To find out who you are?” The way he says it, it’s more like he’s wondering aloud, rather than strongly suggesting it.

“…Maybe?” Owen shrugs. “I guess I’m kind of doing that by being here, anyway.”

He nods thoughtfully, starting to measure things into the bowl. Flour, sugar, a couple of powders, a handful of spices. “How are you feeling about life here?” he asks, while measuring a dark liquid into a small cup.

“I like it here! Everyone is nice and it’s comfy and I feel safer,” he says, smiling. “What’s in there?” He asks, pointing to the bowl.

“I’m really glad to hear that,” Adam says with a smile. “We’re happy to have you. This?” He lifts the cup. “This is vanilla extract. Makes the cookies taste extra nice.”

Owen nods. “Okay,” he says. “…Do you think I might be able to eat real food?” he asks softly. “Like… do you think it would taste gross or hurt me or do you think I’d be okay?”

Adam pauses, thinking for a moment. “I don’t know for sure,” he finally says. “I can’t say I’ve ever met a half-ghoul before. I don’t think eating real food would hurt you…it probably wouldn’t make you any less hungry. I have no idea if it would taste good, or if there’s anything that would taste better than anything else. Those are really good questions.”

“…Should I just try it or should I ask Banjo?” Owen asks. Sure, there would be no real benefits, but it would definitely make him feel more normal.

Adam shrugs. “I’d say that’s up to you. If you want to try something, let’s find you something. I can’t imagine anything worse than a stomachache would result, and you can sleep that off. If I’m wrong, we call Banjo, he’s just down the street.”

“I think I want to,” Owen says. “I mean, I must have eaten real food when I lived with my mom and I don’t think it hurt me…”

“A very good point,” Adam says with a nod. “Anything you’d like to try first?”

Owen shrugs. “I don’t know… What do you think I should try?” he asks, trying not to sound too excited.

Adam smiles. “The world’s your oyster, kid. How about you grab something from the front display and give it a try? Whatever catches your eye.”

“Oh! Um, okay.” He makes a mental note to ask what that phrase meant later as he heads out to the front.

The front of the cafe is busy enough for a Monday morning–which is to say, not that busy. Owen sees Cecilia sitting at a table with a man he doesn’t recognize; he also sees a bright pink-haired lady sitting at the window table sketching; there are three or four other patrons. Bolin is manning the counter–he looks bored.

Owen comes up next to Bolin. “…Uh, hi,” he says softly, looking at all the baked goods on display, and not at Bolin.

Bolin glances over. “Oh, hi.” Bolin seems a little unsure of himself. “Can I … get you anything?”

“Adam, um, said I can try something up here and I… don’t know what to get.” He fidgets with the hem of his shirt awkwardly.

“Oh, uh, sure,” he replies, looking over at the display case. “Do you want something sweet, or salty, or … ?”

“Um.” What was the difference? “I don’t know, do you… have a suggestion?”

“My favourite is the black and white cookie we do,” Bolin says, reaching into the display case and taking out a cookie. “It’s a really simple cookie, probably good to try if you’re not sure what you like?” He hands Owen a cookie, about the size of his palm, half covered in dark icing and half covered in white.

“Thank you,” Owen says, before hurrying into the back again.  Bolin waves as Owen leaves. He still finds the kid a bit off-putting, but if Adam, Andrew, and Steven trust him…well, that’s that then, really. He turns back to his work.

“I got a cookie,” Owen tells Adam, trying not to be nervous about it. There was probably nothing to be worried about.

Adam smiles as Owen returns. He’s put more things into the bowl in front of him and is now mixing it. “So you did. Nice choice.”

Owen takes a tentative bite. The texture was weird. And the flavor was… underwhelming. “…I think it’s supposed to taste better.”

Adam grins. “Probably. Maybe we should see if you like meat better than cookies. Does it taste  _bad_ , though?”

“…No, just… doesn’t taste like a lot… I don’t know if like how it feels though… It falls apart too easy.”

“Fair enough. Why don’t you grab some meat from the fridges in the back?”

As Adam says this, the phone rings on the counter. Bolin picks it up, and after a few seconds, turns over his shoulder. “Adam, it’s Banjo for you,” Bolin says.

Adam dusts his hands off. “Excuse me a moment, Owen,” he says, and heads over, taking the phone from Bolin.  “Hi Banjo. … Yes, he’s here. Mm hmm. … Oh, okay, sure. … I’ll let him know. Thanks.” He hangs up and goes back to Owen.  “Banjo says he may have found some information you’d find useful,” he says. “There’s a place in the forest about fifteen minutes out of town that’s really safe for important conversations, and he’d like to meet you there. Do you know how to get to the RV park?”

“Oh! Okay. Uh. I think I’ve seen it before…? Can you tell me how?” Owen asks.

“Sure,” he replies. “Head down out of town past Banjo’s store. Once you get to the RV park–look for a bunch of large vehicles, it’ll be on the right side of the street–and then turn left and head straight into the forest. You’ll feel like you’re supposed to turn around. That’s part of the magic that keeps it safe. Keep going. Banjo will meet you. Make sense? It’ll take about fifteen minutes like I said.”

Owen had no idea how long fifteen minutes was, or which way right or left was, but he nods. He knew where Banjo’s store was, and that was a start. “…Okay! I’ll go… do that, then.” He pulls his apron off and hangs it back up.

Adam smiles. “Awesome. I hope what he found is helpful to you. You sure you’re good to go on your own?”

“If I get lost I’ll probably find my way back.” Owen shrugs. “I think it will be fine.”

Adam thinks for a moment. “If you get lost, head for water if you can hear it and then stay there; otherwise, sit down wherever you figure out that you’re lost, and we’ll come find you.”

Owen nods. “Got it.” He says, before heading out in the direction of Banjo’s shop.

* * *

The walk is uneventful at first. He knows where Banjo’s shop is and continues past it…he finds what he assumes to be the RV park: it’s close to where he found the ghoul when all this started. On one side of the road is the RV park, and on the other, just forest. So, if _right_ was where the RV park was, _left_ would be the other way. Into the trees. Owen heads in that direction.

The forest is quiet, but not dead: he can hear birds, small animals, insects, all going about their day. It’s chilly, but not uncomfortable, especially in his new clothes that aren’t already threadbare and tattered. It’s like his old life, a little bit, but…less terrible.  He walks for several minutes before he begins to feel uncomfortable, like he should turn around. This is what Adam told him would happen, though, so he keeps going, trying to calm his nerves.

Suddenly, there’s a streak of light in the sky, off to his right, up above the trees.  It’s actually a little hard to see, being as its broad daylight–after he blinks, Owen can’t tell if it was just his eyes playing tricks on him.  A minute or so later, he hears footsteps crunching through the brush towards him.

Owen looks towards the footsteps, hoping it’s Banjo. Who else would be out here? “…Banjo?”

“Afraid not,” comes a woman’s voice. When he looks over, he sees her coming through the brush: she’s a little taller than average, and fairly slim, wearing a thick knee-length iron-gray peacoat and long beige slacks underneath, with a white knit turtleneck poking up out of the collar of the coat. Her boots are black and square-toed; she has short blonde curls, tiny glinting gold earrings, bright red lipstick, and dark brown leather gloves. “I’m on my way to meet someone and I think I got a little turned around.”

“Uh. I can’t really help you. I was just… meeting someone… too.” Owen backs away from her, ready to run away if he had to. The fact that he doesn’t already recognize her leads him not to trust her.

“Oh, you’re meeting someone too? What a coincidence!” She smiles warmly, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “What a small world we live in. I guess that’s Canada for you. Can’t go anywhere without running into someone even though we’re the second biggest country on the planet.” She sticks her hands in her pockets and laughs: it’s an easy, open laugh. “I’m supposed to meet a young man, I have some information to give him, but I only know his name and not what he looks like. Real helpful, eh?” She grins and shrugs.

“Uh.” He backs up a little more, still wary. But she didn’t  _seem_  evil… He bumps into a tree, and looks away from her for a moment, before looking back. “… Who?”

She doesn’t follow him, still standing several feet away amongst the trees, hands still in her pockets. “His name’s Owen. I think there’s an Owen who lives in town, but the fellow who sent me said this Owen was new to the area, so that’s probably not him. He said I could meet him somewhere around here, but I think I misunderstood the directions. I’m always getting lost, worst sense of direction ever.”

Well, if she knew his name, she must know someone in town… “… That’s me,” he says softly, but he doesn’t lose any of the tension he’s holding.

“Oh!” She lights up, eyes crinkling again, her smile turning into a grin. “Amazing! How serendipitous, that we should run into each other!” She motions with her head towards the west. “Do you want to walk with me while we chat? It’s such a lovely day.”

“Wait, who are  _you_?” he asks, inching slightly closer to her.

She blinks, looks puzzled for a moment, then it dawns on her. “Oh my goodness I haven’t even told you my name.” She shakes her head. “Silly me. Strange woman meets you in the forest and asks to talk to you, doesn’t even tell you her name? That’s what fairy tales are made of.” She smiles again. “So sorry. My name’s Katie, Katie Moran. I’m a researcher–an anthropologist if you wanna get a little more specific.”

“What do you have to tell me?” he asks, relaxing a bit. This lady probably wouldn’t hurt him. She seemed alright.

Katie takes a couple steps closer–not so close as to be in arm’s reach, but close enough for more private conversation. “Well, I happen to have some information on folks who have to deal with … tougher living conditions. I’m led to believe you’re among those folks. I’m sorry you have to live with that.” She frowns sympathetically. “I can’t imagine it’s fun, having to live on the edge of everything, being scared that people could turn on you any moment for something you can’t control, and didn’t ask for.”

Owen fidgets with the edge of his shirt as she talks to him. “But it’s not like that anymore!” he protests, but it was making him nervous. What if people  _did_  decide that he was too much trouble? Didn’t want him around anymore? “It’s not like that,” he says again, more to convince himself this time.

She looks a little shocked, and then worried. “Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” She shakes herself. “If you’ve got folks who aren’t like that, I’m really happy for you. That’s great. A lot of people don’t get that lucky.” She smiles, but just a little, and kind of like she’s embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to offend you, I hope you can forgive me. I only…” She sighs, and then takes a deep breath. “I only wanted to let you know that I happen to be working on something that could help you … not have to deal with it anymore. At all. Ever again.”

“Wait… What do you mean?” Owen asks. “Wouldn’t have to deal with what?”

“You could…” She looks around briefly, as if she’s checking for anyone else, then looks back at Owen and leans in a little. “You could, as far as anyone else is concerned, be completely normal. No more special food, no more unwelcome cravings.”

“… Really?” Owen says softly.  _Normal_. If he’d had that when he was little, he’d still have a mom, and a real home… But this life had also brought him so many friends, and he  _felt fine_  now that he was around them… Would he even be useful to them if he didn’t have any special abilities? Or just a burden. “… But… how? What would happen?”

“Well…if it works the way we hope it does,” she says, coming a little closer still, “then all that happens is that you can live as if you weren’t… half-and-half, if you know what I mean. You could eat whatever you wanted, and your body would work the way it does now.” She takes her hands out of her pockets. “We’re still working on it. But it looks promising, and…you seemed so sad and lonely. It’s not fair that you had to live alone and scared for so long. We want to help.”

“You don’t know if it actually works?” He narrows his eyes. “I don’t want you to test it on me…” He backs up again. “I’m fine the way I am. I don’t hurt people or anything.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh no, please don’t misunderstand me–we’d never ask to test it on you, that would be cruel! And it’s absolutely your choice to pursue it or not. We don’t think folks with struggles like yours are dangerous or incomplete or anything like that: we just believe it’s not fair how the rest of the world has treated you, and we want to use our skills to give you the options you never had.”

She sighs a little. “I told them it was probably too early to make you an offer. It’s in trials now, and like I said, it looks promising, but we can’t guarantee anything. We would love to work with you and get your input, as someone who’s directly affected, and that would be all we ask. No obligation, no commitments–just working together towards something we all want.”

Owen is quiet for a moment. This was a lot to handle. And he still didn’t  _really_  know who this was… “…I want to talk to Adam and Andrew first before I do  _anything._ ”

Katie looks sympathetic. “Are Adam and Andrew your parents? Of course, Owen, of course. This isn’t a decision to make in a flash, I absolutely understand. I’d just ask that you share this information only with people you one hundred percent trust: we don’t want the people who  _don’t_  understand to, you know, freak out and come with torches and pitchforks and all that sort of thing.” She rubs the back of her neck. “Then  _no_ body gets any help.”

“But if you’re supposed to be  _helping_  people, why would they attack you…?” Owen asks, genuinely confused.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve met people who don’t understand that you don’t hurt people, right? And they get really upset, because they’re scared, and they don’t take the time to get to know you. They assume you do bad things just because of what you have to eat to survive.” She sticks her hands back in her pockets. “It’s a lot like that. When people don’t understand what you do, and get scared of it, they can do really stupid things. They think you’re lying, even if you’re telling them the whole truth. And this work is hard enough to do without people trying to shut us down for doing things they think we’re doing, even if we’re not.”

Owen nods. “Okay… I guess I understand,” he says. “… Can I go home now?”

Katie looks surprised. “Of course! You’re free as a bird, Owen, I’m only a messenger. Thanks for hearing me out, though.” She smiles. “I appreciate it. I don’t get to talk about my work much.”

“Okay. Um. Bye.” He turns and all but runs out of the forest, feeling uneasy about the whole interaction. She  _seemed_  okay… But… She might not be.

He hears her turn and walk in a different direction. A couple minutes later, another streak of light flies across the sky to his left.  He ignores the light, instead just walking home.

* * *

As he gets back into town, he sees Banjo sitting on his front step, smoking his pipe. Banjo waves. “Hello, Owen,” he says, “great day for a walk!”

“Banjo.” Owen furrows his brow. “There was a lady in the woods and she knew who I was. Adam said that  _you_  wanted to talk to me.”

Banjo puffs his pipe and watches Owen for a slow moment. “…That’s very strange. I didn’t call Adam this morning. What did the woman look like?”

“Tall… Blonde. Uh…. She had a red mouth,” Owen tells him. “She was really friendly and knew my name but I haven’t ever seen her before.”

Banjo takes another long slow puff. “Alright then. Tell you what, Owen. How about you come on inside, and I’m going to make a few phonecalls.”

“Am I in trouble…?” Owen asks, worried.

Banjo shakes his head. “Not in the way you’re thinking, son.” He upends his pipe into a can beside his step, tapping it on the concrete, and sighs. “We’re  _all_  in trouble.”

Banjo leads Owen into the house, gives him a piece of jerky (somewhat absentmindedly), and then sets to making a series of phonecalls on his landline, all of which sound about the same: “Banjo here. Code cerulean. Yes, cerulean. I told you we’d need it someday. See you soon.”  When he finishes those calls–about half a dozen–he calls the various members of the Disaster Family, and requests they make their way to Ryan’s as soon as possible.


	3. Afternoon - II

Banjo and Owen, upon arriving at Ryan’s, find almost everyone already present–only Holly and Francesca come in a couple minutes later, joining the full ranks of the Willow Guard spread through Ryan’s war room: the entire Disaster Family, the Spirit of the Lake trio, Cecilia, Ryan, and the man Owen saw with Cecilia in the cafe this morning.

“Code _cerulean_?” Cecilia asks Banjo as everyone settles in. “I barely remembered we _had_  a cerulean. That’s awfully specific.”

Xiaolian leans towards James and keeps her voice low. “Code cerulean? Like, a shrimp?”

James sighs. “That’s crustacean, sweetheart.”

The folks near to Xiaolian and James hide smiles; Banjo replies to Cecilia. “And rightly so. Are we waiting for anyone else?”

The various members of the Guard look around the room. “I don’t think so,” Ryan says, then pauses. “Unless Dr. Gundish is joining us?” He looks over at the man most of the Disaster Family haven’t met yet: a tall, thin, pale redhead wearing all black, down to his leather gloves.

This man shakes his head. “No, my colleague will not be attending.” His voice has an odd lilt to it, like a cross between a Scottish brogue and an Oxford accent. “I will speak for both of us and inform him of our plans.”

“Very good, Domhnall,” Banjo says, as he takes a seat near the head of the table. “Now–this meeting is earlier than most of you were expecting.”

“No shit,” Francesca says, from her spot leaning up against the wall. “I thought we’d have a week for sure.”

Banjo hums. “I thought so too, but we’ve had … a very interesting incident. Domhnall, Ryan, I know you both have new information for us, but that will have to move down the agenda.” He looks to Owen. “Owen, would you mind telling everyone what happened to you today?”

“Um.” Owen was obviously uncomfortable being in front of such a large group and being the center of attention, even if he knew almost all of them. “All of it…? From the beginning?” He looks at Banjo.

Banjo smiles reassuringly. “Just the main points will do if you’re uncomfortable, son. But no one knows everything that happened except you, so best to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Go ahead and tell us the basics, then we can ask questions if we need to know more.”

Owen, of course, had no idea what the idiom meant, but gathered enough to understand. “Okay.” He turns back to the group, remembering how the lady in the woods told him not to say too much. But if she was  _bad_  it was okay, right…? “I met a blonde lady in the woods who knew who I was, and I thought  _Banjo_  wanted to talk to me because that’s what Adam thought? She was talking about … experiments.”

“Well that’s …  _ominous_ ,” Cecilia murmurs.

Adam frowns. “So that wasn’t you who called me, Banjo? Sure sounded like you.”

Banjo shakes his head. “I didn’t call you this morning.”

“That’s  _doubly_  ominous,” Ryan chimes in, brow furrowed. “So if I’m following this, Adam gets a call from someone who sounds enough like Banjo to fool him. This person says something that convinces Adam to send Owen to see Banjo.”

“Yes,” Adam says. “Not-Banjo said to me that he’d come across some information for Owen, and could I send him to the forest meeting spot.”

“But when Owen got there,” Ryan picks up again, looking at Owen, “he was met by a blonde woman instead of Banjo.” He frowns deeper. “Did the woman say anything about who she was, Owen? If someone had sent her?”

He takes a moment to remember. “Her name was… Katie Moran? She said she was a researcher and… I can’t remember what else.”

“Katie Moran.” Ryan spins around in his chair and pulls up to his computer. “On it.”

“And what did she tell you?” Banjo asks. “You said something about experiments? What kind of experiments?”

He hesitates. “She told me not to tell anybody but she said she could… make me ‘normal’?”

Everyone around the table frowns. “She told you not to tell anyone?” Cecilia says, incredulous. “Because that’s not sketchy at  _all_.”

“I presume by ‘normal’ she meant something along the lines of you not having to eat human flesh anymore?” Banjo asks.

Owen flushes in embarrassment at having it said out loud, and just nods.

Adam looks over at the new man at the table. “Domhnall, is that even possible?”

The pale redhead doesn’t answer for a moment, leaning forward with his elbows on the table and his fingers steepled in front of him. Finally, he says, “I could see several ways in which it would be possible, yes. It depends on the fundamental reason for the dietary restriction, which as far as I am aware has never been determined. The amount of research that would need to go into this…” He taps his fingers together. “It would take years, and many trials. The ethics of such a project would be difficult–not impossible to do above-board, but very difficult.”

“So if this has been going on underground … who’s funding it? And why?” Adam muses.

“It’s safe to assume this person is connect to the so-called Rift-seekers. Correct?” Cassandra asks.

Cecilia grimaces. “It would be the most convenient assumption, but in all the time we’ve known them, they’ve been very focused on researching the  _rift_ –not so much researching cryptozoology and its interactions with humans. They’ve created some unfortunate incidents as side effects of their rift research, but they’ve never been bothered with  _helping_  anyone.”

“I don’t think their intention is to help,” Cass says, grimly.

“Agreed. The whole thing sounds like a power play more than anything else,” Francesca says. “Who knows if they have anything close to what this Katie person said they had? The important thing here is that whoever this was has proven they have the ability to impersonate a trusted member of our group, and lure away one of our more vulnerable members, without us noticing.”

“It’s a good thing Owen’s got a good head on his shoulders,” Holly says, softly, with a smile at Owen.

James folds his arms over his chest, silently taking in all the information.

“They could actually just be researching cryptic zoo thingies… like the helping bit was a lie, but the whole wanting to do experimenting thing was true. I feel like they’re the kinda people who want to create, like, some kind of army.” Roan shudders slightly at the thought.

“Honestly that sounds the most likely. I’m glad Owen brought this to us. Their process is probably super fucked up and the farthest thing from the scientific process,” James says darkly. 

Cass nods. She’s trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together and failing. “I found something,” she announces before she can talk herself out of this. She pulls a piece of folded paper from her jacket, opens it and puts it on the table, face up so everyone can see. It reads “θλ12ζ”, zoomed in so it fills the whole page. She looks up at the Guard, watching their reactions. “Does anyone recognize this?”

James leans over to look at the page Cass put down. “I could look into it… Greek letters, Arabic numbers…” He trails off, lost in thought.

The other members of the Guard peer at it. Banjo frowns. “What’s the context?” he asks.

Cass hesitates, but one look around is enough to convince her. Too much at stake. She pulls out a second piece of paper from her jacket, does the same thing. “I found something. About the, uh, nature of Mount Perseus. Names of projects.” She taps the paper to make her point.

The page has the following text, without any margins or anything that would indicate where the text came from: 

> ` Mount Perseus Research Facility `
> 
> ` classification: Psi-12 `
> 
> ` established: 1979-10-03 `
> 
> ` Mount Perseus is a Psi-12 level research facility in northern British Columbia, established in late 1979 to document the θλ12ζ interdimensional rift and conduct adjacent research. Projects include Prometheus, [REDACTED], and Thanatos. The facility is isolated and self-sufficient; any personnel seeking further information on any Perseus-related projects is encouraged to contact their supervisor. `

The people circled around the table scan the paper, and then most look back up to Cassandra with mixes of concern and puzzlement on their faces. James happens to notice that Andrew, upon reading the paper, freezes up and sits back in his chair. James is sitting close enough to also notice that Adam slowly puts his hand on top of Andrew’s, just under the edge of the table, out of sight to most.  Cecilia speaks first. “Where did you get this?”

Before Cassandra can answer Cecilia, Ryan interrupts from behind them. “Katie Moran doesn’t exist,” he says. “Closest I can get is a Kathryn Moran–studied biology in West Virginia until she went missing in the mid-nineties in her junior year of college, disappeared after a sorority party. State troopers found a body that they semi-positively identified as her the next spring. Cause of death was impossible to determine due to decomp.”

“Well _that_ doesn’t sound familiar.” James says sarcastically.

“She reminds me of someone…” Ryan muses, still staring at his computer screen.  “Ah,” he says, shaking his head and getting up, returning to the table. “White blonde university student. Missing white girl syndrome, that’s all.”

Mik, who’s been frowning into their coffee in the back of the room, looks up. “I mean, we know a missing white girl.”

Ryan thinks for a moment, not quite catching Mik’s drift, and then the lightbulb turns on. “So we do. That’s a really good point, Mik. That’d be one hell of a coincidence, but … these guys seem to make those their stock in trade.”

Mik nods. “You’re not wrong.  What does it mean for our plans if I’m right? Christine isn’t the only person who went missing at Christmas–we might be looking for more than just Shane.”

“Good question. This could be getting even more complicated.” Ryan pulls out his phone and taps at it; a few seconds later, Kathryn Moran’s high school graduation picture and Christine Novak’s last Instagram selfie. The women look fairly similar: round face, blonde hair, darker eyebrows, easy smile. They don’t look identical–the shapes of the nose and the lips are a little different, and Christine has a few more wrinkles–but the photos are also from decades apart.

Mik gets up and comes over to examine the pictures. “I think it’s close enough that we should be ready,” they say after a minute. “Did you have anything you wanted to add? You or–uh, Domnhall?”

Ryan nods. “I have the information I got from studying the footage we obtained Friday night. I think Domhnall has the autopsy reports.” Domhnall also nods.

Cecilia interrupts. “Both of which are important, and not to diminish the potential discovery we’ve got here, but I’m still stuck on how Cassandra got the information she just brought to the table.” She pins Cass with her gaze.

“Does it matter?” Cass asks her, then shakes her head. “It’s just a… source.”

Cecilia raises an eyebrow. “We have disturbingly solid proof that someone–the Rift-seekers or, perhaps even worse, someone  _else_ –has inside information on our operations and the ability to impersonate members of the Guard. And you’re asking if it matters where you got this information? This  _very specific_  and  _partially redacted_  information?” The rest of the table has, somehow, gone even quieter than it had before.

Cass is tense. She gives a short, mirthless laugh. “Why would I—You know what? Fine.” Cass pulls out her gun from her back and places it on the table. “I’m here to help. And I’d be glad to answer your questions. I just don’t think we have a lot of time to spare on me when the other side is apparently making their move.”

The room is silent for a long moment.  Finally, James speaks.  “I trust Cass.  And we are short on time. Interrogations will have to come later.”

Cecilia frowns deeply, looking from the gun, to Cassandra, to Banjo, and back to Cassandra. “I don’t like this. I agree we’re short on time, but if you’re a double agent—”

Ryan interrupts her. “Cece, if she’s a double agent you’ve just called her out. What would be the point? Why wouldn’t she shoot and run?”

“I don’t know,” Cecilia says, almost through gritted teeth, “and that’s why I don’t like it. This means we have no idea who she really is, who she’s really working for, and what her motivations are. This doesn’t make sense.”

Cass is upset, but only mildly so. Frustrated, more like. “My motivations are in line with yours—I want to help this town and the people in it. I’m—You’re correct in assuming I work for someone, but it’s not  _them_. I was assigned to Willow River to make sure people are safe here,” Cass sighs. “Which they clearly are not.”

There’s a moment or two longer of silence, then Banjo breaks it. “Well,” he says, with amusement in his voice, “I guess that means our count of researchers-who-are-actually-agents-of-some-other-organization has gone up again. Academia really doesn’t pay the bills in this day and age.”

Cass can’t help but laugh, a little less tense. “It really doesn’t.”

James chuckles, glad Banjo broke the tension in the room.

Roan feels their throat sting with the knowledge of Cass’ secret life. “I mean I say definitely interrogate. I don’t know what kinda spy world you’re all living in but ‘oh I promise I’m here to help but I’m not actually gonna tell you anything that’s actually helpful and instead I’ll be vague’ is just complete  _bullshit_  to me.” Roan folds their arms across their chest and looks at Cecilia, pointedly avoiding looking at Cass.

Cecilia gestures at Roan, exasperated. “ _See? They_  get it!”

Mik shakes their head. “We can’t put everything on hold to interrogate one of our own right now. I agree that this is all pretty—” they look over at Cass, frowning slightly, “—suspicious, but she’s been nothing but an asset in the time I’ve known her.”

“We are just gonna argue around in circles about this. We have to decide which is more important.” James looks at every person in the room. “Saving Shane or starting a witch hunt against Cassandra.”

Cecilia throws her hands up in the air. “And if not knowing who Cassandra actually is impedes our rescue of Shane?”

Mik sighs. “She’s one of the few of us who knows guns; I don’t think we can afford to bench her. I vote we just… watch her closely.” 

Cass nods. “I’m okay with that. I knew what I was doing when I showed you this. But I couldn’t just hold that information from you. I thought that maybe one of you would have an idea of what any of this meant. These projects, this code…” She looks around the room. “We’re planning to attack a self-sufficient base with little to no knowledge of what’s in there. Anything can be of help.”

A voice surfaces from a corner of the table–a baritone, uncharacteristically reedy and shaky.  “I … I know what the redacted word is,” Andrew says. He is sitting as far back into his chair as he can, his arms wrapped around himself. He’s staring at Cass as if looking through her. Adam has silently moved his chair right up against Andrew’s and has his arm around his shoulders.

The members of the Willow Guard look over at the pair–except for Steven, who is looking at the floor. There seems to be a general air of puzzlement mixed with worry, and some hushed murmurs chase each other around the table.  The quiet lasts a few more moments before Andrew speaks again, still in that hollow tone, still staring Cassandra down. “It’s … it’s ironic, actually. I thought it might be a coincidence, when you showed up. That I was still wrong, still seeing false positives, after all these years. Fitting, really.”

He reaches out with one trembling hand and picks up the paper she had laid on the table, bringing it closer. “The missing word on this page … is Cassandra.” His voice catches, but he presses on. “My—  _my_  project name. And this—” His hand is shaking so hard he drops the paper. “This proves that we  _are_  dealing w— with the same people— that had— me.”

He looks back up at the redheaded woman across the table from him, having briefly shifted his gaze to the paper. “So, if you … don’t mind, I— I have s-somewhat of a …  _vested interest_  … in knowing where you got this.”

Cassandra is frozen in place for a second. The revelation is clearly news to her. “I’m sorry to hear we’re dealing with the same people who took you. That’s… not good, for any of us, I don’t think.” She pauses, looking at Andrew. “This was filed somewhere. I could access it but no more than that.”

“ _Some_ where,” Cecilia says, her tone biting.

Andrew exhales a tiny, mirthless laugh. “It definitely means they don’t mean well for Owen, if that was them.”

“Cassandra,” James says. “The prophet cursed to never be believed… That’s either a coincidence or a sign. And in this line of work, you don’t see many coincidences.” James leans back against a wall and crosses his arms over his chest.

Ryan speaks up–from back at his computer station, where he had gone sometime in the past few minutes. “I, uh, I think I may have found more information, with the extra keywords to cross-reference … It looks like the string of Greek letters and numbers refers to the rift itself, and I found a couple more mentions of Prometheus, and … “ He trails off. “Oh. Oh, I… um.”

“What is it?” Cass sounds worried.

“Andrew, I…” Ryan sounds the least sure of himself he’s ever been. “Andrew, I’m so sorry, I think maybe I just… oh, fuck me.” He says the last few words sotto voce, then comes back to the table. “I … think I found a bunch of information about you. I … I won’t share it with everyone if you don’t want me to. And I’m so sorry, I … I didn’t mean to pry. At all.”

Andrew doesn’t answer for a moment, then slowly releases a long breath. “Will it be helpful in bringing them down?”

Ryan weighs the question. “… It could be. There are names, and references to other projects. No guarantees any of the people named still work there, of course, but … “

“Any information is good information,” Andrew says, heavily, completing Ryan’s sentence. Ryan nods, still looking somewhat abashed.

“…Just give us names and projects. Nothing personal,” James suggests.

“It’s up to you, Andrew,” Ryan says. “Do you want to see it first, before the rest of the group, and decide how much to share?” 

Andrew considers this. Adam takes one of his hands, and Steven reaches up and takes the other.

Finally, Andrew looks at Ryan. “… I’m done hiding from it. I have a family and a community. Let me be as an open book, and I will be loved.” His last sentence takes on a deeper timbre, and his eyes–very briefly–mist over with purple.

Ryan swallows hard, nods, and goes back to his computer.


	4. Afternoon - III [Memory Sequence]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING. The following chapter deals with the memories of a child abducted at a young age and experimented upon in a medical facility. There are mentions of needles, drug use, and unwilling participation in experiments. Please use discretion in consuming this media.
> 
> Hover over italicized foreign text for translations; mobile and tablet users, please read the end notes for translations.

A couple moments later, a block of text appears hovering over the table, replacing the pictures of Kathryn Moran and Christine Novak. It is legible regardless of the side one is sitting on, and reads thus:

> ` C3802 Live Specimen Report `
> 
> ` specimen #: 19900523 91214253112510 114418523 `
> 
> ` date: 94-11-29 `
> 
> ` examiner: Dr Mielniczenko `
> 
> ` height: 99 cm `
> 
> ` weight: 15.3 kg `
> 
> ` examiner’s notes:   
>  ` ` 418523 is showing signs of malnutrition and unwillingness to cooperate with examiners. He is not sleeping without medical intervention. Furthermore, he is no longer responding to the recommended dose of methylphenidate. Hallucinatory states have become rare to the point of nonexistence since he was admitted to the institute. This examiner predicts that without a more intense psychological regimen, no progress is likely to be made, and recommends studying the effects of lysergamides, tryptamines, and/or phenethylamines; alternatively, a program of NMDA antagonism could be extremely fruitful, given the presumed depersonalization/derealization nature of the specimen’s hallucinations. `

The table is quiet as everyone reads the report. Suddenly, a choked sob sounds from Andrew’s corner of the room—but before anyone can react, the air in the room feels like it turns to heavy fog, and the world blurs.

* * *

A room. It’s nice, but it’s not your bedroom, not your home. Mama isn’t there. Neither is babusia. You feel so alone. None of the people have been mean, but they’re not friendly. Their smiles don’t reach their eyes, and all they want to know about is what you see when you go away. Babusia said that you didn’t need to worry about those things yet, and that whenever you went away and came back you should go tell her what you saw and she’d give you an apple. These people don’t have apples, they just have funny wood things they write on and white coats and they all have glasses.

None of the food is right. It’s all bland and grey-brown and it gives you tummyaches. You miss red food, red food that’s tart and sour, with strips of crunchy green and blobs of sour white. You miss babusia’s bread and mama’s cookies. 

The bed is yucky too. It’s hard like the floor, and also grey. You miss the warm colourful blanket babusia made for you that has your name on it if you look close. You just learned how to read and you were so happy when it made mama and babusia happy.

You sit in the middle of the floor while the tall lady with the long dark hair in the white coat who looks just like all the other tall people in white coats asks you questions. You understand the questions but you don’t have anything to say to her. She doesn’t have any apples. Even when you  _did_  tell them what you saw when you went away, they didn’t give you any apples. They just wrote it on their wood things, nodded and frowned, asked you if you were sure that was what you saw, and then they left. No apples. What’s the point?

She pokes your arms and legs, pinches your side, huffs. It’s the same huff that babusia always made whenever cousins came over. She always got them food after. And sure enough, once the tall lady leaves, a shorter man comes in with another tray of icky gross bread and floppy meat that isn’t kobasa and a glass of milk that tastes like water, and you don’t want to eat any of it but the man stares at you and it makes you uncomfortable so you put the food in your mouth and make yourself chew.

After you make yourself eat everything on the tray, the man takes the tray and goes away, and you’re alone again. It’s almost nice, not to have the people in white coats, but you’re bored and you miss mama and babusia and you don’t even have Stepashka to keep you company. You sit on the bed and hug the pillow, and put your face in it. It smells like mama’s cleaning cabinet but not in a nice way, more in the way that it smelled after tato got sick and mama had to clean the whole house and you had to stay with babusia.

You start to cry, Your chest hurts, and your head feels icky. It feels like your head is swimming and your eyes are going funny again. You don’t want to go away again, not so soon. You’ve been hiding it from the tall people in the white coats, because if they can tell you’ve gone away they come twice as often and have five times as many questions.

You just want to go home. You’ve lost count of how many sleeps it’s been since you saw mama; you can only count to sixteen and you counted at least three sixteens but now you can’t remember. Babusia used to help you when you went away, tell you how long you’d been gone, but the people in the white coats don’t tell you anything.

“Mama,” you whisper, “ _mama, babusia, bud’ laska, ya sumuyu za toboyu…_ ”

You bury your face in the pillow and muffle your tears, trying to ignore the growing pain in your head as the world slides away into something else entirely.

* * *

Ryan’s basement swims back into focus.

There’s a communal half-gasp as everyone comes back to themselves. The text floating above the table changes - though no one really has the chance to actually  _read_  it before the world shifts sideways again, and instead they experience the second report through Andrew’s eyes.

> ` C3802 Live Specimen Report `
> 
> ` specimen #: 19900523 91214253112510 114418523 `
> 
> ` date: 97-06-03 `
> 
> ` examiner: Dr Fenwick `
> 
> ` height: 112 cm `
> 
> ` weight: 20.2 kg `
> 
> ` examiner’s notes:  
>  ` ` 418523’s progress is remarkable. To think that in only two and a half years we have come so far and learned so much! The connection between serotonergics and controlling the specimen’s hallucinatory states has, in this examiner’s opinion, been thoroughly proven. We have, over the past months of research, successfully induced dozens of hallucinatory states in 418523. The clear front-runner is psilocybin, which induces a deep hallucinatory state in short order; lysergic acid diethylamide lags behind in efficacy and more often than not results in poor data and weeks of uncooperative behaviour in the subject. This examiner recommends the next step in 418523’s program be direct exposure to θλ12ζ, pre-, during, and post-state, on each of the three best reactants. Also, have we received clearance for ibogaine yet? This examiner suspects it would be even more effective than psilocybin. `

* * *

You’re so angry, all the time, and you shove it down. Being angry with the doctors just gets you in trouble, and as much as you hate being here and you hate going away whenever they want you to, you hate being in trouble even more. So you bite your tongue and your lips so much that they bleed sometimes, and you stare at the doctors, and you hate it all, but at least they finally figured out you wanted food that didn’t taste like nothing, so at least you have food to look forward to sometimes. You know they put medicine in it, you’re not stupid, but either you eat the food or you starve, and if there’s any chance you’ll ever get out of here, you know babusia would want you to have some meat on your bones or else she’ll sit you down and feed you kobasa until you burst.

You miss babusia so much. You miss mama, of course, but you miss babusia even more. You thought you saw her, one of the times you went away, and you almost caught hold of her hand before you came back. That was the hardest it’s been in a while: you cried for days, and you nearly bit one of the doctors. That didn’t go over well.

But it gave you hope: hope that babusia might come help you, hope that you might learn some of the things that she used to tell you stories about, the things she said you could do that you never figured out how to do. You barely remember some of the stories anymore, but you whisper them to yourself to fall asleep still, especially on the bad nights.

You’re used to the visions now–that’s what the doctors call them. Visions. You  _see_  things. You don’t really remember what you see anymore–you used to. You remember some of the things you saw when you were very small: little things like mama’s favourite cup falling off the shelf, where babusia had put her old thimble, when tato was going to stop being sick. But now, you only remember the things you see when the doctors aren’t giving you medicine, which is never, or almost never anyway. After one really awful medicine, where you came back sick and lost the soup you’d eaten just before and couldn’t even drink water for hours–the one time in your memory you’ve been out of your room, since leaving home, and you stayed in a bed that was almost comfortable for almost two weeks–when you were in the special bed with all the beeping machines, with the needle in your arm, after you’d slept for what felt like days … then you saw something, and you remember it even now.

You saw an angel. It was warm and glowing and soft and it felt like babusia’s blanket. And you felt, deep inside, that babusia was coming for you: she was getting help. You wouldn’t be there forever. You’d be able to eat her borscht again and sleep under your quilt, and she’d give you apples, and you could even cuddle Stepashka again, even though big boys didn’t need cuddle rabbits.

The short man with the mustache is at your door. He teaches you things, and you listen, because it’s better than eating food with medicine and having visions that hurt. Yesterday he taught you about math. Today it looks like he’s brought a book with stories.

Maybe today won’t be so bad. Maybe you’ll get a break from being angry, just for a little bit.

* * *

The memory fades out, and the next report rolls in.

> ` C3802 Live Specimen Report `
> 
> ` specimen #: 19900523 91214253112510 114418523 `
> 
> ` date: 01-08-17 `
> 
> ` examiner: Dr Kersgaard `
> 
> ` height: 140 cm `
> 
> ` weight: 32 kg `
> 
> ` examiner’s notes:  
>  ` ` 418523 has continued to be a veritable fount of research in the second stage of the project. Occasional controlled exposure to θλ12ζ has proven fruitful, especially once the institute was able to procure ibogaine, as per Dr Fenwick’s suggestion. None of the treatments has seemed to have any effect on θλ12ζ itself, unfortunately, but the effects on 418523 have been remarkable. His hallucinatory states have become laser-precise: he’s the oracle of [REDACTED]. This examiner recommends the institute move to stage three, with more diverse training. Keep the boy in iron and silver, of course, there’s no need to tempt fate. `

* * *

You’ve long since stopped speaking to anyone, even the people they send in to teach you. You stare them all down, your eyes level and your heart pounding in your head, determined not to show even the tiniest reaction. You feel like you haven’t blinked in years. 

You only speak when they force you to, when they bring you to the strange places and hand you the plastic cup and you all stare at each other in a silent standoff until you capitulate, like you always do, and you drink the ibogaine. You didn’t, once, and they injected you with it, and you were gone for a month. Now you drink, but you make them wait. 

Sometimes they bring you the ibogaine without taking you out of your room. It’s not very often any more–they’ve gotten all the information they want about how to make you  _have_  visions, now they’re just interested in what you see and what affects the visions and how you can affect the course of time. Now all they want to know is what you can predict, what you can see of the world outside your walls. And when you come out of the ibogaine haze, you have no choice but to tell them. You’re pretty sure it’s not just ibogaine in that cocktail.

They’ve started to get lax, though: they’re giving you books to keep you quiet, and books have so many wonderful things in them. You’re amassing a small library in your room. You suspect that they’re happy you’ve started reading instead of staring at the camera in the corner for hours on end. You’re pretty sure you were creeping them all out. So much the better. 

They gave you new clothes a couple months ago, clothes with bits of metal sewn into the hems. You don’t like them. They don’t  _hurt_ , but they feel so heavy, and you don’t think so well in them. The first time you wore them, you took them off immediately, and you felt so much better. When you woke up the next day, you were back in them–except they were tighter, and you couldn’t get them off without help. That resulted in three days of you refusing to eat, until one of the doctors arrived with another set and made you a bargain: you kept the clothes on, you’d get to go outside.

It was an offer you couldn’t refuse. You hadn’t been outside in something like seven years. You acquiesced—a word you’d found in one of your books, and which you loved dearly—and the doctor helped you switch clothes. It felt like your brain was fuzzy, but the feeling of grass under your hands and feet made you cry with joy.

* * *

There isn’t even a glimpse of Ryan’s basement before everyone is thrown into another one of Andrew’s memories.

> ` C3802 Live Specimen Report `
> 
> ` specimen #: 19900523 91214253112510 114418523 `
> 
> ` date: 05-10-27 `
> 
> ` examiner: Dr Langtree `
> 
> ` height: 164 cm `
> 
> ` weight: 53 kg `
> 
> ` examiner’s notes:  
>  ` ` 418523 is ready for stage four. The presence of a rift is now a conditioned response for hallucinatory states (see records on θλ12ζ, βπ87υ, and σγ36χ in particular), even without added psychogenics. Given that Prometheus is ready to be deployed, this examiner is of the opinion that the sooner the institute acts, the better. The resources are ready, there’s no reason to wait. `

* * *

This isn’t normal. This isn’t  _normal_. You’ve been here at least ten years now and you know the routines. On a day they want to test you, they give you light food in the morning, then they bring you to wherever they want to do the testing, then you drink from their plastic cup, you slip into the other and hopefully you don’t come back crying. Then your mouth repeats everything you saw, while your brain catches up and stops hurting, and they give you a cookie and a juice box (still not an apple) and they put you back in your room, where you curl up under your blankets and pretend it’s nighttime.

That’s not what’s happening. You’d expected  _that_ , when they brought you toast and weak tea this morning. You haven’t vomited after a session in years, but they’re not taking any chances. Must be the best control they have. No, today they’re taking you to a room you’ve never seen before–which, in itself, is not strange, you rarely see other rooms, but this one … this one is different.

Instead of being some random room in some random place, this one feels like an emergency room, with the raised bed and all the machines around the edges, but it’s the wrong colours. Instead of mint greens and pale yellows, it’s pure white. It’s so white your eyes hurt. You step in, the strong men to either side of you keeping their iron hands on your shoulders, and then they stand to either side of the door, and the doctors busy themselves stripping you, leading you up onto the bed.

It feels incredible to have the metal-lined clothes off; you feel free, like you can finally breathe properly. Your eyes start to glaze over, and you’re almost  _excited_  at the prospect of slipping away from all of this without the medicine, but one of the doctors – a short woman with angry eyes – slaps you across the face, and you jerk back. “You wait,” she says, gruffly.

You exhale slowly, focusing on the pain in your cheek to ground yourself–and then you’re helped along by the pinprick of several needles in your skin, and you inhale sharply instead. “Calm,” another doctor says, a man with a deep voice, “breathe slowly and it’ll go better.” You have nothing to gain by ignoring this, so you focus on your breathing and try to stay present. For some reason, it’s  _really_ difficult.

After the needles – most of which are attached to intravenous solutions of some sort, but some of which inject something and then are removed – come the electrodes, which are taped all over you. You haven’t had one of these sorts of tests in a long time, and you are rapidly becoming panicked. These were never fun, and you don’t remember what they were for.

Most of the doctors have backed away from the bed now, but the deep-voiced man is still there. The short woman wheels a machine forward, something covered in cabling, with several cylinders nestled in amongst the cables; they are glowing blue. As it approaches, you feel your mind slipping again, and you strain with all your might to remain present: you’re not interested in doing this again, and clearly they want you here, so you’ll obey, because the alternative is so much worse. You can see the haze at the corners of your vision, and you know you don’t have long. “Hurry,” the man says, “we’re losing him.”

The woman approaches with the ends of two long, thin cables, which are needle-tipped: she inserts them, very carefully, just behind your ears. They sting like hell. And then she backs up, stands by the machine, and as your vision begin to blur you hear the man say, “Ready,” and the woman presses something on the machine.

Your world disappears into pain and light, and you’re pretty sure you scream, but it might just be in your head. You can’t tell anymore, and you won’t be able to, ever again.

* * *

The war room swirls back into view and the text above the table flickers out. Everyone is breathing hard, feeling their minds return to the present and, indeed, return to  _themselves_. Those who look around the table notice that Andrew has slumped over onto Adam; his eyes are open, unblinking, and entirely a glowing purple, and his skin seems to be slowly losing a similar glow.

“…Holy shit,” Ryan whispers hoarsely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> “mama, babusia, bud’ laska, ya sumuyu za toboyu…” [mama, grandma … please, I miss you…]


End file.
